


peter's Totally Perfectly Normal field trip

by thennevermind



Series: adventures (read: misfourtines) of the amazingly tired-man [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depressed Peter Parker, Flash Thompson Bullies Peter Parker, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, OKAY NO I AM SORRY, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker's Field Trip to Stark Industries, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Tony Stark, Sleep Deprived Peter Parker, Sorry Not Sorry, Swearing, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, also SI still has the Stark Tower because i said so, also aunt may is kinda dead, i took flash's bulling and amped it up to 1000, like a lot of swearing, no beta we die like men, sorta - Freeform, well shes just not here and its insinuated that shes dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2020-07-29 18:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20086627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thennevermind/pseuds/thennevermind
Summary: Peter didn’t sleep last night. Not after the news he accidentally overheard from Pepper and Mr. Stark talking in the living room. It wasn’t his fault that he had super hearing, and the couple knew about his extensive range, so they were totally trying to get him to listen in.Guilt, shame, and anxiety swelled in Peter’s chest. He had no right to be unhappy for his classmates about the once-in-a-lifetime trip that they had the privilege of experiencing. Yes, Peter had a deep resting unease about it. That on its own was no reason to dread this amazing opportunity. It was one Peter had daily, which is the whole fucking problem.





	1. ah, right, peter was so totally fucked

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my take on the very overdone cliche of the Stark Industries field trip. i might do more fics set in this little universe that i've created for this (hence why its part of a series) but if i do most of them will be shorter things with only a few chapters. dont hold that to me though
> 
> anyway, the warnings for this particular chapter (even though i kinda outlined them in the tags):  
Overstimulation  
lots of swearing  
minor taunting/bulling
> 
> but yeah, enjoy!

Peter was incredibly, amazingly tired. Fuck the Amazing Spider-Man, Peter was the amazing tired-man. His body was weighed down like a building haphazardly crumbling onto his shoulders (ha). The bags underneath his eyes were dark enough to mistake him for a raccoon; that is if he looked up long enough to allow anyone to see his face. He was wearing the same sweatshirt he wore yesterday, and he was fairly positive the jeans he was wearing had a stain on them. To top off the oh so welcoming disaster, Peter was repeatedly banging his head against his desk, only looking up momentarily to look at the clock every now and then.

Peter didn’t sleep last night. Not after the news he accidentally overheard from Pepper and Mr. Stark talking in the living room. It wasn’t his fault that he had super hearing, and the couple knew about his extensive range, so they were totally trying to get him to listen in.

Ned plopped down into the seat next to his best friend, making Peter flinch and pause in his head-smashing. He wasn’t expecting Ned to appear that quickly. Peter let out a low, guttural groan. It was probably the deepest sound that Peter had ever produced, but that was something for him to ponder all night for another day. Instead, Ned leaned in closer to his friend, getting into his personal space. It made an uncomfortable sensation spike up Peter’s spine, but it was more from anxiety than his Spidey Sense. Peter leaned in the opposite direction anyway.

“Dude, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Did something happen? Is something _going_ to happen? What could be so bad? I haven’t seen you this un-put together since–” Ned started to question in his quickly worded Worry Tone. The syllables of Ned’s sentences fell off of his lips in a speed incomprehensibly quick. MJ sat down at the desk beside Peter and Ned’s, jumping slightly when Peter cut Ned off with another loud bang of head against the desk.

“That sounded like it hurt.” MJ commented in her usual flat-but-secretly-invested tone as she took out her books for the class. And her sketchbook, as Peter was looking too miserable at the moment to pass up the opportunity. 

“You’ll see, Ned. And it did,” Peter let his head drop back down onto the discolored and scratched wood. “That’s the point.” 

“Wait. What do you mean ‘I’ll see?’ Peter what's going to happen,” Ned gasped as his eyes widen comically. “Wait, there aren't any super dangerous bad guys going to come here and try to kill you, are there?”

At that, Peter’s head finally popped up completely, confused eyes focusing on Ned. “What? No!” The spider-boy quickly defended with an additional sputtering noise at the end. He brought his arms up from being crossed over the desk to hide his face momentarily. There was most definitely a red spot on his forehead from all the smashing against the desk. Any normal person probably would have had a concussion. “Why is _that_ your first guess?” 

Peter groaned again as he heard MJ chuckle beside him. He lowered his arms as Ned started explaining himself. “I don’t know, man. You seem to always be attracting the attention of people who want to kill you.”

“Thanks, Ned. That makes me feel so much better.” Peter rested his head against the desk again but stopped his abuse of his forehead.

“Not that I’m not completely enjoying this exchange, but what exactly is going to happen?” The sarcastic twinge of MJ’s voice was suddenly music to Ned’s ears. He nodded vehemently, though Peter couldn’t see it.

“You’ll see.” Was all that Peter had time to answer (and probably all he had planned to answer with) before the bell rang and their physics class had began.

Peter’s friends dropped the subject during class. They knew that if Mrs. Warren caught them talking about something not-physics related again, they were probably going to get detention. MJ didn’t particularly mind that, but Ned swore up and down that if he got detention his mother would kill him.

About halfway through the class, Ned realized that Peter had fallen asleep. Things like this didn’t happen with much frequency anymore, considering he had mostly retired Spider-Man to a more manageable timeframe. The appearances of the friendly neighborhood superhero had petered out slowly but surely into something of an anomaly the year prior. Peter just… flat out didn't have the time to patrol between school, job, and lab work, with visiting Aunt May in the hospital.

Ned nudged Peter, who barely budged. Great.

“Okay, now that school is almost over for the day, I have a little announcement to make.” Mrs. Warren called out, to which Peter’s head snapped up quicker than humanly possible (literally, thanks to his super reflexes, he moved so fast that it shouldn’t have been humanly possible). His blood coursed through his body at record speed, his heart beating like a ticking time bomb inside his chest. This was it. 

“As you all are well-aware, Midtown Tec is one of–if not the–most prestigious high schools in New York that focuses primarily on technology and sciences,” Mrs. Warren began in her speech, tens of pairs of eyes intently focused on her. Ned’s gaze drifted from Peter to their teacher wildly. Peter only knew because he could see it in the corner of his eye, and feel the odd shift in the air on his skin every time his head moved. “Time and time again, our robotics team has won state and national competitions, as well as our Decathlon team who recently was awarded a position in the United States National Decathlon Competition. Our chemistry and physics departments have countless students currently taking part in prestigious internships with some of the most amazing tech-companies in the world, as well as alumni participating in ground-breaking research in scientific departments around the world. There are scholarships upon scholarships awarded to our students from the highest tech-oriented colleges, which contributes to our impressively high percentage of students pursuing science-related higher education. You are not normal students.”

By now, there was a stifling confusion floating around the room. Internal questions spread throughout the class that all could be boiled down to a simple question: What was the point of this speech?

“That is why it is my great pleasure to tell you that next month,” by now, the smile on Mrs. Warren’s face was no longer being suppressed. It was so wide that it was blinding. “your class of 2020 has been invited to not only tour the Stark Tower here in New York but also the _Avengers_ Compound, all because of your great achievements!”

Ah, right, Peter was so totally Fucked. The class erupted. Peter clamped his hands over his ears, the noise drilling into his skull thanks to his enhanced hearing. He barely noticed the permission forms being passed out to the class. The surrounding sound was climaxing, debilitating. Before he knew it, cheers echoed through the entire school as hundreds of students celebrated all at once for something Peter couldn’t find it in himself to be excited for.

Eventually, once the cheers began to die down, a realization seemed to strike Ned. He quickly turned toward his best friend with a wide look on his face. “This is the thing, isn’t it? You already knew about it somehow, that we’re going to the Stark Tower– we're going to the _Avengers Compound!_ Can you believe it?!” Ned’s hands managed to make their way into his hair. Peter caved in on himself more.

“Yeah, I’m not excited.” Peter began to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves, looking down at the crack in the desk that he had made earlier. He must’ve been hitting his head harder than he thought.

“Why not, Pe–” Ned attempted to ask, only to be cut off with a loud shout and the sound of hands smacking down on their desk. Peter flinched heavily, already on edge as it was.

“The fucking faggot is scared for the two-year lie to finally be uncovered. It’s that right, Penis?” Some six-foot-something dickhead with close-cut blonde hair (Peter thinks his name is Johnson) from Flash’s group of goons leaned on the desk, crowding the already sensitive Peter. The boy tried not to let the insults get to him, but the unsettling sensation crawling up his back only worsened. He didn't want this to happen _right now_. The insults coupled with Johnson’s breath smelling of nachos and nicotine blowing directly into his face made Peter twitch. 

All Peter could do was focus on the steady heartbeat of Ned. He felt his own banging against his ribcage like a ferocious beast begging to be free. 

“Back off, dude.” MJ somehow hovered over to be standing behind Peter and Ned. Both of the nerds jumped, not noticing her presence. Peter started to follow MJ’s heartbeat as well as a desperate attempt to calm his breaching headache. Johnson seemed to have half a mind not to fuck with Michelle, as he literally backed away with his hands up in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine. But next time Penis doesn’t have you as a fucking bodyguard, it’s not going to be me prodding and picking. It’ll be Flash, I promise.” Johnson let out a full-bodied cackle before turning back to his friends.

Peter decompressed considerably, anxiously held breath surging out of his lungs immediately. He opened his mouth to thank MJ for the backup, but before he could get any words out, the bell rang overhead. The slightly mysterious girl (even after a year and some change of knowing her, MJ still concealed much of her personal life) flicked her fingers in a salute as a goodbye, smoothly following the flow of students rushing out of the classroom for the day. Peter sighed, resigning himself to his fate. They were going to the Stark Tower and there was nothing that Peter could do about it.

“Peter?” Mrs. Warren’s voice made Peter blink quickly, then squinted his eyes in confusion. “Could you stay after class for a moment?”

Without a verbal answer, Peter nodded goodbye to Ned. His best friend’s face twisted into something of concern and barely-concealed excitement, to which Peter merely met with a grimace. Ned didn’t understand Peter’s predicament. Of course he wouldn’t.

It took a moment for the rest of the students to leave the classroom. Peter waited patiently by Mrs. Warren’s desk, fingers fiddling with each other and the ends of his sleeves again. He couldn’t help the nervous habit, especially with being told to stay after class. Was it about him falling asleep? He didn’t mean to! He hadn’t been doing it lately. Whenever he did or didn't pay attention, though, he’d still get whatever question she asked him correctly. But Mrs. Warren wasn’t the kind of teacher who––

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to stay, aren’t you, Peter?” The solid and professional voice of the physics teacher broke through the tired boy’s nervous thoughts. He nodded, biting his lip. Peter didn’t exactly trust his voice right now, as everything still seemed too loud, too bright.

Mrs. Warren walked behind her desk, taking a seat in the large swivel chair. She began to organize papers, letting silence befall them. After several moments (she must have not seen Peter’s nod) the teacher sighed. She propped her elbows onto the desk, finally looking at Peter. His face was contorted in worry, still biting his lip. A flash of confusion rushed across his face when his worry was mirrored in Mrs. Warren’s eyes. That is, until he remembered he currently looked like the walking dead.

“Look, Peter, I have no idea what your personal life is like,” Oh boy, here it comes. “But what I do know is what I can hear in my class and in the halls. The rumor that you have an internship at Stark Industries has been… something of an infamous topic related to you for the past few terms. I hear students accusing you of lying and,” The woman paused, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was always known for talking too much in her explanations. “Honestly, I don’t know if you are lying or not. That’s not my place. If you… have, then I recommend coming clean about it before next month. The chance of popularity isn’t worth some legal inquiry about falsely associating yourself with Stark Industries.”

Peter’s vision swam in and out of focus. He could still hear everything everywhere in the school: all the words, heartbeats, footsteps. He tried to steady his breathing. Peter willed himself to focus on his on elevated heart rate, on Mrs. Warren’s steady one. “If not, then I would recommend you ask your coworkers not to disrupt you during our trip. We all want this to be a peaceful, educational time, okay, Peter?”

“I understand, Mrs. Warren,” Peter nodded along with the entirety of her speech, especially vehemently when he spoke. The words didn't taste right coming out of his mouth. His tongue was thick and heavy, sitting uncomfortably in his mouth. The pit of his stomach had long dropped into a disparity of anxiety, swirling with fear and guilt and disappointment as a tingling sensation crawled up his spine. Their two heartbeats were so frustratingly loud that Peter couldn't dwell on the fact that even his teachers thought him a liar. “I'll be sure to take your uh, your advice into mind.” 

A soft but wary smile appeared on the worn teacher’s face. Her tired eyes were blissfully unaware of Peter’s over-sensitivity. She adjusted some papers again, the fibers scratching together uncomfortably to Peter’s ear, then nodded to herself. “Then you're free to go.” 

Something in her tone insinuated she had more to say. Peter didn't know what it was about it; he was too encased in the beginnings of overstimulation to decipher it. Maybe it was the underlying sarcastic drawl. Maybe he was just imagining it, having been around Mr. Stark’s highly concentrated sass for too long. Maybe she was waiting for Peter to say something else before continuing with whatever accusation she had in the back of her mind. Maybe she wanted him to confess right then and there to the whole internship business being a lie, and that he had dug himself too deep into a hole to attempt to crawl out of it until now. Or maybe she expected him to go on a long ramble about how it was never a lie, how he never felt the need to actually prove he had an internship, but did in fact work in the Tower. 

Without a clear answer as to what was happening, Peter began to bounce nervously. His legs moved him back and forth, side to side, with intense nervous energy radiating from every movement. The friction of his pant legs together grated more on his ears, but he couldn't stop the movement if he tried. For a second too long, the anxious boy waited in front of the desk for another word from Mrs. Warren. Awkwardness emitted from every part of Peter’s person as he nodded one last time, adjusted his backpack, then began to walk away. 

He needed to get somewhere soundproof. And he needed a fucking _nap_.

Only when Peter had one foot out the door did he get his answer. 

“Oh, and Peter?” the spiderling spun around with too much speed, worry filling his enhanced movement. Curious, wide, unsteady eyes bore into the teacher, who looked fairly amused with herself. “I'm assigning you an essay to make up for you falling asleep in my class. I'll make up the details for you tomorrow.” 

Peter huffed out a relieved breath. The anxiety in his stiff posture relaxing. His bouncing stopped, but his heart continued to relentlessly pound as sounds pounded against his skull. A physics essay? That would be a piece of cake. Still, the extra homework wouldn't be ideal with the load he already had. “Okay, that sounds good, Mrs. Warren. Have, uh, have a good evening.” 

With that, Peter scurried out of the classroom. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, looking left and right for his best friend. Ned was nowhere to be seen (nor could he locate the familiar heartbeat, or voice, in the school. that might've been from the assault of sounds Peter couldn't currently sort through). Confusion bled back into Peter’s mind as he made his way to his locker. Did Ned not wait for him? 

A loud crash somewhere in the school made Peter reflectively clap his hands over his ears again. It did nothing to help, but the principle of it worried him. The tired and overstimulated super-enhanced boy opened his locker, got what he needed, and put on his headphones with determination. Peter was tired and hellbent on taking a long nap once he got home. A large yawn broke out of the boy’s mouth when he thought of sleep. He could complain to Ned about the field trip later. (and to Mr. Stark as well, but that was beside the point.)

The mission to find Ned died as quickly as it started. 

The sounds around Peter dimed considerably once he put on the noise-canceling headphones. He blasted his personally created ‘drown out the world’ playlist as well, which also helped. He tried to focus more on that then the neverending droning of the world around him. It was far from perfect; Peter could still hear things happening that he normally shouldn’t be able to. The headphones were only the first line of defense against overstimulation with sound. Mr. Stark made them, so they worked incredibly well.

But Peter was far beyond the point where he could slow down his escalating panic. The depressing thought that all this was because he couldn’t handle some students cheering grated on Peter’s already dampened mood. The fluorescent lights in the hallway were beginning to grate on his eyes too. That sensitivity only worsened when he got outside, the sunlight boring into his irises and making a throbbing pain stab in his head. Peter squinted his eyes, finding Happy’s car waiting for him with more muscle memory than sight. 

Happy didn’t say anything when Peter first entered the car. The enhanced boy sighed once he buckled himself in, letting his head bump against the headrest of the backseat. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Happy’s endearingly unhappy way of concern for Peter made a fleeting smile appear on the boy’s lips.

“Over-stim.” Peter merely mumbled. The vibration of his vocal cords in his throat made his skin crawl. Happy, knowing the situation, pressed a few buttons on the car’s console. The light in the car dimed dramatically.

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut. He blindly changed the music running through his headphones to a softer playlist that Mr. Stark had made for him. It was mostly classical stuff: piano, violin, cello, and some guitar. It didn’t have vocals, making it the calmest playlist Peter had. The car started moving forward gently. 

Guilt, shame, and anxiety were swelling in Peter’s chest. He had no right to be unhappy for his classmates about the once-in-a-lifetime trip that they had the privilege of experiencing. Yes, Peter had a deep resting unease about it. That on its own was no reason to dread this amazing opportunity. It was one Peter had daily, which is the whole problem.

People would have the chance to uncover Peter’s identity. Flash would have the chance to uncover Peter’s identity. There was no way getting around that. He didn’t have a special badge to wander around the tower with. He had nothing physical to show his clearance and legality of being in the tower, of working in the labs there. That isn’t to say that he didn’t have it. Peter was Peter, so he didn’t need a badge. FRIDAY knew him by sight and biometrics, which was something few had.

But when the class realized he had that, there would be riots. Why did lowly Penis Parker have that high of clearance? Why didn’t he have a normal intern’s badge? No normal intern could wander the R&D labs, yet Peter regularly walked right in and help with a project. No normal intern could access the Avengers levels, yet Peter had a bedroom there. No normal intern could go up to any door and open it without any problem, yet Peter could go into any room without a swipe of a badge. Even if he was Tony Stark’s personal intern, that still wouldn’t make sense. There still would be places that he wouldn’t be allowed to go. 

But no, Peter was Peter and had an all-access pass to literally everything in the Tower. He could go into places that the Avengers themselves couldn't see. Mr. Stark’s personal labs require a password and biometrics to enter, and no one but Peter and Mr. Stark had both. Even Pepper, the wife of Tony Stark and CEO of Stark Industries, only had her biometrics in the door. She had to be let in by Tony. 

Peter Parker wasn’t normal. He was Spider-Man. He was–in all intents and purposes–a Stark. He was a part-time Avenger. And all his classmates would soon figure out at least half of it.

With those worries in mind, Peter fell asleep.

When the boy awoke, he was in his bed. This brought into question (a) how (b) why and (c) _how_ Peter shifted in underneath the soft covers. The weight on top of him was welcome, soothing. He pressed his face deeper into his pillow for a moment, nuzzling the soft fabric that smelt like his shampoo. The ringing in his ears was gone, as was the pain behind his eyes. The room was completely silent save for his movements, so he wasn't sure if his super hearing was done throwing a fit or not. The boy didn’t know how long he had been out, either (the room was completely dark, meaning the window was currently blackened out for his comfort). 

Peter stretched, giving his tired muscles some awakening. He sat up in bed with a yawn and a smacking of his lips. As he wiped his hand across his eyes, Peter cocked his head toward the ceiling. “Hey, FRI?” His voice was groggy, but the vibration in his throat no longer bothered him.

“Hello, Peter. How are you feeling?” Came the barely-audible response from the AI. She was turned down so low that anyone with normal hearing probably wouldn’t hear her. Peter was grateful for that setting, as it was easier to listen to when he was overstimulated.

“I’m okay. Still iffy but okay. You can turn off the overstim protocol,” Slowly, the muffles around Peter’s ears lifted. He could now hear several people in the common room. Someone–no, two someones–were cooking in the kitchen, talking all the while. There was a movie playing, Moana he thought, and a low conversation happening somewhere in the midst of all that. It was as if he were in the room himself, not several rooms and a hallway away. The blacked-out window progressively became transparent, letting the dying rays of sun filter in through the bottoms of the curtains still covering it. That didn’t hurt his eyes, which was progress. “What time is it?”

“It is currently six thirty in the evening,” FRIDAY’s voice was much louder now, but still slightly lower than normal. The noise of a lively home dimed slightly in response to Peter’s covering his ears. He thanked her programming vehemently as he removed his hands. “I’ve alerted the Boss that you’re awake.”

“Thanks, FRIDAY.” Peter mumbled mostly to himself as he got out of bed. He stretched again when standing. His body was tired and stiff, begging for more sleep. He was still in the clothes he wore to school, so the barely awake boy shuffled to his closet to find something more comfortable. 

Just as he finished pulling up a pair of plaid pajama pants, the door to his room opened. The cocoffany of sound barrelled in the moment that his headache decided to rear its ugly head. In his head. Again.

“Hey, Pete,” Mr. Stark leaned against the doorframe, letting the sound drift in. Peter’s face contorted into a small grimace. His eyes squinted together and head moved backward as if to get away from the excess sound. It was not ideal. “Oh, shit, sorry.” The billionaire lifted his hands in surrender, then backed away. He closed the door on his way out, not letting Peter get in a single word.

Sometimes, the mysterious Tony Stark still confused him. Peter had known the man for a fair few years now, so it came as a surprise to him. His mentor had never been one to be emotionally open, either. It had taken a while for them to warm up to each other in any way other than a strictly mentor-mentee way. But when Peter started actually having an internship at Stark Industries, things changed. They only melded together more when Peter eventually moved into the Compound with all the other Avengers.

Their relationship shifted from Peter looking up to Iron Man with starry eyes, begging to be respected and let in on the fight. It transformed into a companionship of trust and care with long nights in the lab. Somehow they molded into a well-oiled machine when working together, communicating solely in Italian and random spurts of morse code. They learned each other’s body language. Tony mastered Peter’s small giveaways in movement and speech that said something was wrong. Peter became familiarized with Tony’s shielding people from knowing his true feelings, and how to break through it. 

Then there were times like this, where Mr. Stark would do something like that and leave Peter wholly confused. 

Peter shook his head to get the wild thoughts out of his head. He found a particularly old T-shirt with a science pun on it. It was obviously too big for Peter’s small frame. At this point, he wasn’t sure if it was originally his or Mr. Stark’s. They both had worn it at some point in time. Peter got himself too big shirts in the past to sleep in, so it might’ve been his to begin with. The boy didn’t really know. He put it on anyway.

Mr. Stark returned soon thereafter. Peter was sitting cross-legged on the ceiling when he came back in. That nearly gave Mr. Stark a panic attack. No matter how many times he saw it, it always scared him. The mentor held something up as a peace offering to the upside-down spiderling.

“What’s that?” Peter stage-whispered before dropping himself off the ceiling and onto the bed.  
Mr. Stark sat on the edge, expectant. He waited for the teen to scoot toward him before holding out the object again.

“These are my noise-canceling earbuds,” Mr. Stark now held both of the earbuds, left and right in respective hands. He was whispering. “They aren’t completely canceling like your headphones, so you'll still be able to hear, but they’ll probably help right now.”

Peter reached out for the earbuds. When Mr. Stark encountered a problem, the most logical thing for the man to do was invent something. That was just part of his personality. He created a new type of structure so he could put his mansion on an unbuildable cliff face for christ sake. But this time, instead of hurriedly making a new invention for Peter, he simply offered something of his own. Something he had already made, used, and loved. Peter turned over the earbuds in his hands, inspecting the craftsmanship. They definitely were older: there were scuff marks on them, and one of the earbuds had pieces of a different colored metal than the other. That part was newer, shinier, and clearly a replacement. 

“I can't take these..?” Peter said mostly to himself, still looking over the precious thing in his hands.

Peter still had a difficult time with accepting things. Tony and Pepper told him time and time again that money wasn’t an issue. They wanted to buy him whatever he wanted, even from expensive stores, no matter the cost. The life that Peter lived before he wiggled himself into the Stark family was vastly different. Aunt May and Uncle Ben were constantly counting expenses. They budgeted heavily, spent scarcely and carefully. Aunt May worked her ass off after Ben died to provide for Peter, sometimes skipping meals so her nephew could go to bed with a full stomach. Money was an issue. It always was. 

So when money suddenly became a non-issue, Peter’s conditioned brain didn’t know how to handle it. He didn’t understand the meaning of buying whatever you wanted. The Parkers never took give-outs, never sought out to be charity cases. They worked and they survived with what they had. But now, Peter didn’t have to worry. It was weird. It was unsettling. It was difficult accepting things.

“Yes you can, spiderling,” Tony took the earbuds from the kid’s hands. He then proceeded to put them into his ears himself. “No more complaining. You’re using mine until we make you a pair for you to keep. How’s that?”

Mr. Stark was talking in a normal tone, but it was muffled enough to be comfortable. Peter breathed deeply as he contemplated the man’s words. It was just a loan. Mr. Stark wasn’t giving them to his kid. They were to be returned. Peter could make his own with these earbuds as a base. 

“That seems okay with me.” Peter nodded as he spoke at a normal volume himself, pleased at the performance of the earbuds. It was a nice touch that they weren’t only earplugs, but could also play music as well (as evidenced by the headphone jack at the end of the chord). Mr. Stark split into a proud and pleased grin. He stood, motioning Peter to follow him.

“Oh, and we’ll talk about your cover for the field trip later. Might even get you your own fancy badge.” Ah, right, Peter is so totally Fucked.


	2. the title of mini-boss was not new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for this chapter:  
nightmare (of drowning)  
lots of swearing  
lots of anxiety

“Ah, _fuck!_” Peter swore louder than he originally wanted to as sparks flew up into his face. He coughed, waving his hands at the gathering smoke. He brought one hand up to his face as he hacked up a lung, thankful for FRIDAY triggering the fans to blow away his mistake. He should have listened to his Spidey-Sense the moment that it began tingling.

“Language.” Came a new voice that Peter was familiar with, making his head snap up to the entrance of the lab in confusion. No one but he and Mr. Stark were allowed in this room. The door was open (oh) and Captain America stood in the doorway.

It was two and a half weeks after the field trip had been announced. Peter had mostly forgotten about it thanks to his extra physics paper and his earbud project. Mrs. Warren was a smart woman, smart enough to notice that her student was (likely) smarter than her. She assigned him a topic that students usually wouldn’t learn until their junior year in college. It was one that Peter was only partially familiar with, so it came as a challenge and a learning experience. The research took up most of his free time nowadays. When he wasn’t working on that, he took to the lab to reverse engineer Mr. Stark’s earbuds. It was a project that proved more difficult than he originally anticipated. Peter honestly could just invent his own design, but he was vehemently fixated on recreating a near-perfect copy of Tony’s with nothing but the earbuds as help.

“Oh, uh, hey Mr. America- Rogers, sir.” Peter sheepishly addressed the man, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t on as cozy terms with Captain America as he was with the other Avengers. Well, the other previously-rogue Avengers. There was a wall blocking him from fully admiring the hero (that wall was named Serbia and the fight with Mr. Stark). Tony had long forgiven the man, and the two were on good terms. Peter seemed to be the only one who still  
held a grudge.

Was it because that with a beard, he too closely resembled the man that killed his uncle? Probably.

“What are you up to, kid?” Steve asked as he walked further into the lab. Tony was nowhere to be seen (he was probably what the Captain came here for), so the super-soldier focused his attention on Tony’s kid.

“Uhh,” Peter blinked as another shiver ran up his spine and made the hairs on his neck stand. Quickly, the boy lifted the still-on and still-hot welding tool before it could burn the table. “Still trying to recreate these earbuds.”

“Ah,” Steve looked as though he was about to say something else. Instead, he turned around as Tony reentered the lab, looking frantic.

“Are you okay, Pete? FRIDAY said—” The disheveled man who clearly was on his sixth cup of coffee began rambling, but Peter effectively cut him off by raising the torch.

“I welded a bit too close to the wires and caused a small fire… again.” The spider-boy turned off the weapon and gently placed it back onto its home.

Tony visibly decompressed, but still held some of the tension in his shoulders. It was the kind where they were perpetually pushed backward slightly. It made Tony’s chest stand out ever-so-slightly, which made him seem confident and self-assured. But it was different from his ‘I’m confident in my geniuses, so shut up and listen to me’ stance. That posture held more emphasis on his neck stretching, chin lifting, and shoulders raising. Not being pushed back.

So, basically, Peter could tell that Tony was over-exhausted and needed some fucking sleep.

“Well, now that I’ve got both of you here—” Captain America adjusted his own posture and vocal tone. He shifted from tired, friendly curiosity to serious, important PSA. Peter sighed. Then he gasped in apparent realization, eyebrows shooting up underneath his messy mop of hair.

Wait, tired?

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on, hold up, what- what time is it?” Peter cranked his head up to the ceiling. Both Tony and Steve directed their gaze there as well. The genius boy didn’t have to look at their facial expressions to guess that they were both confused. “FRIDAY, please enlighten us. What time is it?”

“It is currently three thirty-seven a.m., mini-Boss.” FRIDAY’s voice validated Peter’s suspicion. It was hard to tell what time it was when working in the lab. For both security and safety reasons, there were no windows in the lab. They had been shattered out far too many times to justify keep getting them replaced anyway.

But Steve was usually good at going to bed at a reasonable hour. Unless he was jet-lagged. Wait, didn’t he recently get back from a visit with Bucky to Wakanda?

Peter jumped onto the spinny chair behind him. It made the chair understandably spin and roll backward. Acting as if that wasn’t happening, Peter pointed an accusatory finger at Mr. Stark. He spun around full three-sixty degrees while still pointing. He wasn’t aware enough to think of how hilarious he must look at the moment.

“YOU! You should be asleep. You promised me you wouldn’t stay up forcibly with coffee anymore.” Peter then engaged Puppy Dog Eye protocol, putting on the most hurt face he could muster while still slowly spinning around in circles.

It was quiet in the lab for about a second after Peter spoke. Then, both Tony and Steve erupted into laughter. The prior doubled over, one hand keeping himself standing by stabilizing himself on a worktable and the other clenched around his middle. Steve was in a similar state of laugher, except his cackling made him lean backward instead of forwards.

Unable to contain himself, Peter split into a wide grin and began laughing as well.

After several minutes of unabashed laughter and cackled comments, Tony finally stood himself back up. Peter was happy to see that the tension in his shoulders was gone. Mr. Stark finally let himself slouch down in exhaustion. “Yes, yeah. Okay. You need to go to bed too, bambino.” The man let out a few more loose laughs, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Okay, fair. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. I planned to do a little bit of work after finishing up with my homework and research for the night but uh, that apparently didn’t happen.” Peter smiled tiredly, suddenly aware of how exhausted his body was. One thing he had in common with Mr. Stark was to get into The Zone and be unaware of how much time was actually passing. Pepper was convinced that they both had some form of ADHD, but they never got around to actually getting them diagnosed.

“Research for what?” Steve questioned, looking the most put-together out of the three of them.

Peter ignored the question (mostly because he was too caught up in cleaning up his workspace and cataloging his progress of the night.) Instead, his mentor answered in his wake. “The little spiderling fell asleep in class, so his teacher assigned him a paper on physics. On a subject way too complicated for a high school student.”

“That sounds illegal. They’re not allowed to assign something above a student’s ability for a grade…?” Steve responded in something that sounded more like a question. He ignored the fact that Peter fell asleep during class because if right now was any consolation, the boy had a horrible sleep schedule.

“She knows that everything we’re learning right now I already know. And have probably experimented with. She wanted to give me something that I actually had to spend time on, instead of just doing it in one night with the knowledge that I already have. Which is weird for me, because I really don’t have to do that for my science and math classes?” Peter explained absentmindedly as he worked.

Tony was beaming at this point (as much as he could while looking that tired). Peter couldn’t see it as much as he could feel it. The influx of positive pride in the room was almost tangible to the super-enhanced boy. He couldn’t tell you how that worked.

Steve, on the other hand, looked equally confused as he did impressed. Peter didn’t know how that was much of a shock to him. He and the rest of the Avengers regularly saw him in deep scientific conversations with Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner. Not only that, but they found him tinkering with something in the lab more often than not. Still, Peter guessed that was different than discovering that Peter coasted easily in his schooling.

“Okay, as fun as that was, I’m officially kicking all of you out of the lab. Especially you, Cap. You aren’t even allowed to be in here.” Tony clapped his hands together with a tone of finality. It didn’t bother the youngest in the slightest. Now that he realized how tired he was, Peter was ready to sleep and never wake again.

But, oh. Shit. He had school tomorrow.

That was a problem for future-Peter. Peter in the now simply clicked ‘save’ on his notes, set down his Starkpad, and followed his mentor out of the lab and to well-deserved sleep.

小さな休止

Peter’s heart was beating uncontrollably. It was stuttering and hammering, stopping and starting too quickly. His stomach was inside his throat, turning and tumbling with such ferocity that the pale child paled more. He wanted to move, to thrash as quickly as his terrified heart plundered.  
His chest contorted as forgotten air moved to attempt to get more use out of it instead of slowly suffocating on the lack of air inside his lungs. Peter’s shoulders tensed and hunched, his stiffening fingers fumbling to release himself from the friction, from his tangling suffocating binds.

But the water around him pressed too tightly and caused inescapable, paralyzing turmoil shutter through his entire being. Such a lack of air and a ramped heart began to deteriorate his consciousness. The edges of his mind flashed into grey, melding the ends of his consciousness from the dark black around him to a pure mindless white.

He was dying, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. Peter’s arms thrashed violently, his legs kicking fruitlessly below him. When had he begun to move? Had he always been moving? No, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how hard he fought: he wasn’t moving upward. The lack of breath was clawing inside his throat, pushing at his chest, and grabbing at his lungs. The pounding inside his pulse had slowed to move slower than limbs could move in the water. His eyes fluttered open, somehow able to witness the small air bubbles leaving his nose. Something so patient and pure and lovely turned dire as it killed the life force still residing in Peter’s lungs.

Overwhelming and insufferable pressure kissed cold to every portion of his body. In an attempt to search for something, anything that might save him from the breathless torture he was being subjected to, Peter tried to open his eyes wider. Scanning, searching, wide eyes were forced open, open, _open._

With the start of several gasps of breath, Peter awoke in a dark room. He was lightheaded at his heavy breathing. The frightened and panicked boy untabled himself from his covers, moving to clutch his hand over his chest. It was just a nightmare. He was fine. Peter was safe, breathing soundly, home in his bed at the Avengers Compound. He was okay.

“Peter, you appear to be in distress. Shall I activate the Nightlight Protocol?” FRIDAY whispered softly to the boy teetering on the edge of panic. Peter began to count his breathing. It was still too rapid and uncontrolled for Peter to speak. Instead, he steadied the shaking breaths by taking larger timed ones. The panic encasing his entire form slowly ebbed out of his fingertips.

“I’m okay, FRIDAY,” Peter whispered back a few seconds later. He didn’t need Tony to wake up from his much-needed sleep just to help him out of a nightmare. “I-I’m okay. I’m he-ere. I’m safe. I’m not drowning.”

“That is correct, mini-Boss. Are you sure you don’t want me to wake the Boss? Or bring someone else to your aid?” FRIDAY responded quickly after Peter’s stuttering reassurances to himself. Peter merely took several more timed breaths, not responding. Nightmares were a common occurrence for him, for basically everyone in the Compound.

“Ah, uh,” Peter blinked, finally moving his hand from where it had been clutching his shirt over his chest. “I’m okay, really. What, uh, what time is it?”

“It is currently five o’ four a.m., twenty-seven minutes before your alarm is scheduled to ring.” FRIDAY’s cool tone responded instantly, making Peter groan and wipe his hand down his face. Just under two hours of sleep, not counting falling asleep on the car ride over to school. Classes started at seven forty-five, and Peter highly disliked people seeing him pull up to school in a black Audi Sudan, so the hour and a half drive time plus the fifteen-minute walk to school meant that the young teen had to wake up at the asscrack of dawn.

The sun wasn’t even over the horizon yet, which was a common thing. The only person in the Compound who was regularly awake at this hour was Natasha, but she usually would already be starting her morning work-out by now.

Thus, Peter could not activate the Nightlight Protocol. He didn’t want to wake anyone up, nor pull the Black Widow of all people from her workout. And with there only being a small amount of time until he actually woke up, Peter was just plainly fucked.

Peter ruffled his hands through his bedhead of curly hair. “Turn off my alarm, will you FRI? And set one for when Happy arrives.”

With a confirmation response from FRIDAY, Peter begrudgingly hauled himself out of his bed. Everything in him protested to stay in the warm, comfortable safe haven.

Peter Benjamin Parker Stark was not, by any means, a morning person. He was like Tony in that his best work (and sometimes most questionable) happened in the early hours of the morning after an all-nighter. His ADHD didn’t help at all, so it was even harder to get to sleep sometimes. Sue him, Peter was a night owl.

It came in handy when he had to study for a test, complete a project, or the occasional patrol as Spider-man. It most certainly did not come in handy when he got distracted and hyper-focused in the lab and accidentally stayed up much too late on a school night. No matter how many times Peter had pled, he wasn’t allowed to sleep in and miss the first few classes on those kinds of days.

(Though, Pepper and Tony were more lenient on the Bad Days. Like when the birthdays or anniversaries of his two sets of gone parental figures come. Or when something triggers a bad memory, or time, and panic that lasts hours ensues. Sometimes after a particularly bad nightmare – only the ones where Peter wakes up screaming, climbing on the walls, trying to get away from anyone who gets close – they will let him stay home. This isn’t one of those days.)

Needless to say, in combination with so little sleep and not being a morning person, Peter was having a hard time getting ready. Sometimes he wished he could be like Happy, who despite not looking it, actually quite enjoyed mornings. The man probably was awake right now, nursing a cup of coffee under lamplight by the window, reading a book. Peter could only imagine with the little details that he’s gathered about Happy.

Peter did that a lot, he realized as he attempted to tame the unruly hair on his head. He gathered information about people through observation and pestering. Peter liked to be knowledgeable, but he wasn’t always this persistent in gathering tiny information. He blamed his newfound noisiness on living with 2.5 spies. One of whom decided that Peter would make an excellent spy if not for his hyperactivity. Still, he’s always wanted to know how to best help somebody, to notice their tells for different things, to understand their personality better than their baseline front that everyone saw. Peter tugged his brush through his hair once more before putting it down.

Happy was an overall grumpy person. He didn’t like physical contact, nor breaking of rules. He preferred to be on-time and hated being kept waiting. That was his baseline.

Peter slowly picked up his tube of bubblegum toothpaste (he couldn’t stomach any mint flavors after the Bite) and his brush. In his foggy, tired mind, he almost didn’t realize he was holding his hairbrush and not his toothbrush before it was almost too late.

There was more to Happy about being grumpy, though. He cared immensely. The head of security didn’t like physical touch because it hurt; he probably was touch starved as a kid and couldn’t handle it properly now. Peter jumped to the next logical conclusion with that piece of information about other things. Happy hated being late most likely because his neglectful parents punished him for it. The same could be applied to his stickling for rules.

As Peter brushed his teeth (with his toothbrush, not hairbrush, thankfully), he thought more about Happy. He had lost someone close to him at some point. Peter noticed the faded tan line of a wedding band on Happy’s ring finger, and there was a picture of a man and a child in his wallet. There also was one of a woman, too, but she was in a separate picture. Peter assumed that these mysterious, unnamed characters were the reason that Happy enjoyed mornings.

The kind-hearted man had said something about ‘getting used to waking up early and having a cup of coffee together.’ It was back when he first started driving Peter to school daily. The sleep-deprived, night owl teen had questioned him sleepily how he was so chipper being the grumpy man he was, and that was Happy’s answer. Peter spit out the fluoride in the sink. He placed his toothbrush back in its place, then applied his deodorant.

There was also an old, torn, tea-stained, water-warped copy of The Hobbit perpetually in Happy’s car. Peter asked about it once, too. Happy said he never read it, and he didn’t understand any of the references Peter tried to make about it. So it wasn’t Happy’s. Peter guessed it might’ve been the child’s favorite book, as they looked like a teen. Peter only saw a glimpse of it--the pictures and the book--so he may be wrong.

But Happy definitely enjoyed reading. That wasn’t the only book that Peter had seen in the car. He also caught a glimpse of 1984 and something called In These Final Hours. There was the fact that when Happy was early for picking up Peter, he was usually parked and reading a book. So it was even weirder that Happy didn’t read the loved copy of The Hobbit if he was interested in literature.

Peter flicked the light off in the bathroom. He groggily rubbed his eyes as he padded over to his wardrobe. He muttered to FRIDAY to turn up the lights, considering he never turned them on before venturing into the bathroom. Sometimes he forgot to do that, as he saw better in the dark now thanks to his heightened senses. But colors were still muted, and he needed to see them to not have a fashion disaster of an outfit.

Not that he usually did anyway. His fashion sense wasn’t the best. MJ was always harping on him to get a better style, and Pepper was always complaining about him needing new clothes. Peter didn’t see the point. The clothes he had were fine. Like the baby blue sweater, he just picked up in his hands, planning to wear it over a button-up. It was soft, admittingly slightly threadbare.

Peter got dressed without thinking after that. Instead, he let his mind drift back to his Happy Information: kind-hearted, morning person, was married, likes literature. Right, that’s where his train of thought was going.

Happy was quite well rounded when it came to genres of books. He could easily keep up with Peter when he was talking about one book or another. Especially when it came to books that Peter had to read for school. On more than one occasion, they had debates on the meaning of specific parts of his reading assignments. Whether it be a character, plot, or a rhetorical device, Happy seemed content in discussing it. It was in those times that Peter heard Happy talk the most at once without complaining about something.

Despite being such a caring person, Happy was private. Extremely private. Peter still didn’t know where the man actually lived, if he wore anything other than suits, or who the people in the pictures were. Or if they were still alive. Or what happened to them. Or anything about his family or background. Or how old he is. Or where he grew up. Or who he spent time with when he wasn’t working.

What Peter did know is that Happy’s left eye would start twitching when he became truly angry. His right eye would close or squint when he had a headache. When he’s concerned about something, his toes wiggle, and his lips press ever-so-slightly into a thinner line. When he’s upset or uncomfortable, Happy’s grip on whatever he’s holding (including air) gets stronger and his jaw clenches. He cracks his knuckles a lot, but not to be menacing. It’s his way of fiddling with his fingers, otherwise known as a nervous tick. Happy also fixes his tie too much when his mind is somewhere else.

Peter wondered how he managed to know so much about people yet not know them at all.

“Peter, Ms. Romanoff is making breakfast in the common kitchen.” FRIDAY interrupted Peter’s long train of thought, finally putting it to an end. The boy noticed that he was almost completely ready, save for his shoes. He was dressed, phone in his back pocket, and reaching for his book bag.

Ah, the symptoms that aren’t technically symptoms of having ADHD. Peter got completely ready for the day without even realizing it, because he was lost in thought and not focusing on what his body was actually doing. Was that because of his ADHD or something else? Peter didn’t actually know, nor did he care.

Straightening up, Peter left his bag on the floor. Instead, he opened his door and made his way into the common-kitchen. Once he came into view of Natasha, her eyebrows peaked. It was the only show of emotion on her face. Currently, she was buttering a slice of toast while eggs cooked on the stove behind her.

“Hey, ребенок паук. What are you doing up this early?” The woman asked kindly, calling him 'baby spider' in Russian while setting down the butter knife and leaning on the counter.

Peter plopped himself down on one of the barstools. He leaned on the counter in a similar way to the elder spider, but much happier and less awake. “Nightmare woke me up early.”

“Ah,” Natasha hummed before resuming her preparation of what was probably eggs on toast. “You want eggs on toast?” Yep, Peter was correct. Before he had the chance to respond, though, his stomach growled out in answer for him. The corners of Natasha’s lips quirked upwards. She made a show of looking from Peter’s stomach to his reddening face. “I take that as a yes. How do you want your eggs today?”

“However you’re making them is okay, мама паук,” Peter mumbled, then pressed his head onto the cool granite countertop. He breathed heavily, eyes fluttering shut, body begging for more sleep.

The rest of the breakfast-making was done in silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence; in fact, it was the opposite. It was comfortable, calm, and cozy. Familial, Peter would say. He felt safe and at ease in this mutual silence, neither wanting to break the tranquility of the morning. Peter might’ve fallen asleep because the next thing he knew there was a gentle tap on his shoulder.

He lifted his head off his arms (when did he even move his arms under his head?) and turned it toward Natasha. A gentle smile was playing on her lips as she slid a plate filled to the brim with food in front of the tired boy. Peter returned the smile, which erupted into a yawn before he resituated himself to have the plate closer. The two remained in comfortable silence. This time, it was interrupted by the quiet sounds of eating as the pair consumed eggs on toast side by side.

Natasha Romanoff was one of the very few people that Peter had next-to-none small information pieces on. He easily blamed that on the fact that she was a world-class spy and former assassin, so he usually didn’t harp on himself too hard for that. But still, there were times like this that Peter wished that he knew much more about the woman.

He knew that she was caring, protective, if not motherly. She loved to cook, especially with Mr. Winter White Wolf Bucky Soldier, but hated cleaning. Peter thought that she enjoyed hanging out with Bucky because they could speak in Russian together. Which, she frequently swore and muttered under her breath in Russian. Sometimes it sounded like she was making notes to herself. Which made sense, considering she was always looking over her shoulder, checking rooms, keeping tabs on people. It seemed part paranoia and part protective instinct.

On one occasion Peter swore that he heard crying come from her room just before someone wandered into the gym. It was two in the morning and Peter was the only one awake, as Mr. and Mrs. Stark were out on a business trip. But he could’ve been wrong. Sleep-deprived and heightened senses don’t mix well.

“You want to talk about your nightmare?” Natasha suddenly asked, seemingly out of the blue. But Peter realized that in his tired thinking, he was staring at one single spot on the table.

“Ah,” Peter swallowed the bite of toast that was in his mouth. The eggs were over-easy, his favorite. “Just the drowning one again.”

Natasha hummed, sipping her cup of coffee. “Is that why you didn’t ask for a drink?”

Peter paused, his last slice of toast stopped right before entering his mouth. It was soaked in all the leftover egg on his plate. “Probably. I’m just really tired today. Something feels off.” Peter admitted, both to Natasha and to himself. That would make sense as to why he was thinking so much, trying to distance himself from what he was really thinking of.

What that was, he wasn’t quite sure yet.

“If you think something feels off, then chances are something is. You have a good sense for those things, Petya.” Natasha put down her coffee cup, shifting her body so that her torso was facing Peter. That clued him in that a serious conversation was following. Peter set his toast back down onto the plate.

“Yeah,” Peter took a moment to reflect on himself. There was a weight of dread pooling in his stomach, but not so much that it was easily noticeable. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling so softly that he had to think about it to recognize it wasn’t because of cold air. “It’s like a really, really, weak Spidey Sense. Like I’m forgetting something, but I don’t know why.”

“Is there anything that you know of happening today that might upset you?” Natasha picked up her coffee cup again with a small nod. She sipped it while waiting for an answer, not putting it down this time.

“Maybe it’s just anxiety about a test I forgot about? I know my extra physics essay is due next week but I still have time for that…” Peter didn’t understand what he was mentally blocking himself from. If it was that important, then why make himself forget it? Or maybe it was something that he didn’t know yet, that his Spidey-Sense was trying to warn him about, but his abilities weren’t powerful enough to do so.

“That’s plausible.” Natasha offered, but nothing more. Her eyes were boring holes into Peter’s, constituting continuous eye contact. It was weird and fairly uncomfortable, making Peter shift in his seat. Was this some form of spy interrogation or was Peter just too tired?

“I don’t know… Having super anxiety on top of normal anxiety makes things confusing sometimes.” Peter finally admitted, both to his internal question and the reason he feels on edge. He tore his gaze away from the spy. He could still feel her eyes on him, though. But the piercing feeling previously scalding into his skin was gone. Instead, it was warm, concerning. It felt how laying flat on the floor after a good ass-whooping work out felt. Peter smiled, ever so softly. “Maybe I’ll just go visit Aunt May after school today or something.”

With the sound of porcelain clinking down onto the granite tabletop, Natasha had apparently been satisfied. She hummed, which proved that micro-theory. Peter looked back toward her, noticing that her cup was empty. Which was odd, because she was a slow coffee drinker, and Peter didn’t think they were sitting together for that long… right? “That’s a good place to start, ребенок паук.”

Peter nodded in agreement. Even though Peter came to the conclusion mostly on his own, Natasha did help to push him toward the answer that he ended on. Without her guiding the conversation, Peter probably would have just continued to be anxious about nothing all day. So, to voice his thanks, he took in a deep breath and opened his mouth. Before he could say anything, FRIDAY interrupted the conversation. “Mr. Hogan has arrived, and is waiting for you, young Master.”

The spider child’s head whipped up to where one of FRIDAY’s speakers were. He sat there for a moment, both caught off guard and very confused, staring up at the ceiling. Natasha mirrored his surprise, but in her past-and-kinda-still-a-spy kind of way. Her eyes were probably a half a centimeter wider than usual, and her heart was beating quicker than it was before. Peter spoke first, voice unsure. “FRI-FRIDAY…. What, what did you just call me?”

“Young Master,” FRIDAY confirmed that yes, she did actually just call Peter that. And he had no idea why. “I’m trying out some new titles. Does that not work for you, mini-Boss?”

Peter dragged his hand over his face, the first time that he had moved his arms since he finished eating his eggs on toast. The title of “mini-Boss” wasn’t new. It was something he had grown comfortable with over the past half-a-year or so. But young Master? What was that even supposed to _mean_? FRIDAY didn’t call anyone by anything like that. It was so out of left field. Peter blinked several times, realizing he started to stare off into space. “Oh...kay..? You can just call me Peter. Just... Not Master please.”

“Noted, mini-Boss.” FRIDAY, at the very least, dropped the Master thing. Peter would have to talk to Tony about this after school, after seeing May. Maybe this is why the father-like figure was up so late the night prior?

“Happy’s waiting for you, ребенок паук.” Natasha’s heart rate had gone back down to normal. She was chuckling under her breath, but Peter was most certainly not calm. He was confused and anxious and shaken by his dream and what the day might bring and what Mr. Stark might’ve done and–

Oh. Right. Happy’s waiting.

Peter took off from the stool, almost toppling it over if not for Natasha steadying it after he abandoned it. She wore a small smile on her lips, one of exasperation and adornment. There was a swirling, swimming, spilling emotion in her pupils, tumbling around the dark outer rim and circling into the rest of her gaze. It was the same emotion that shone in May’s eyes before sickness clouded them over. Peter only saw it for a moment, a second as he was flying off the stool, but it was enough.

Peter ran back to his room, tugged on his worn Converse, slung his bag over his shoulder, and proceeded back into the kitchen. He gave Natasha a wave– which she returned with an exasperated look in her eyes– and booked it to where Happy would be waiting.

He let himself hope for the first time that morning that the day would be alright.


	3. so today wasn't an alright day after all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this has nothing to do with the 'field trip' plot, but everything to do with the overall plot of this world/series

The day turned out to be decidedly _not _alright. Peter thought it would be for the most part of the day, but once Physics started, the thought of an “alright day” went out the window. 

For starters, Flash was in this class. He hadn’t been for the past few weeks because of “some fuck up with the school and attendance” and putting Flash in the “wrong” science class. At least, that’s how the dickhead himself put it. Upon the boy’s arrival, the dread in Peter’s gut came back full force. Taking this great opportunity of misery, Peter began to (once again) hit his head repeatedly on the desk. By now, it had a dent that was decidedly the shape of Peter’s forehead.

“Dude.” Peter heard the harsh whispering of Ned in his ear, quickly followed by the sound of his best friend sitting in the chair next to him. “This isn’t like the last time you were doing this, right? We aren’t going to go see Mr. Stark or something… right?” 

Something in Peter’s chest twinged. He lifted his head just enough to rest his cheek down on the desk. Ned had always been there for Peter, through thick and thin. This meant that Peter could definitely see that Ned was excited despite his friend’s misery. At least, for now, when he didn’t know why he was miserable. After all, the last time that he was repeatedly hitting his head against a desk was when the field trip was announced. So, Peter didn’t hate Ned for wishing that something else exciting was happening. Honestly, Peter wanted something exciting to happen too. But no, all he got was dread and Flash. Unquenching, constricting, thicker than honey and syrup, dread sloshing around in his stomach. Well, not his stomach-stomach but Peter knew what he meant.

Ned, upon seeing Peter’s face, fell out of his barely-concealed excitement. Peter could tell by the subtle twitch of his eye and the muscles pulling around his mouth that he was now, in fact, worried. Great. The last thing he needed was an actually worried Ned. Not semi-concerned-and-confused like he had been just before the announcement. Nope. This was just worrying.

“I’m okay,” Peter breathed. Luckily that was enough to make the tension in Ned’s face relax. “Nothing is going to happen. Well, nothing that I know of. I just…” Peter trailed off with another grunt, squeezing his eyes closed. 

It was almost as if his insides were jumbled. They twisted and turned and constricted and waded desperately through the thick goop of dread. His ribs were tightening, the tension in his chest rising as he focused on the feeling. This wasn’t his Spidey-Sense. This was plain old anxiety. 

Peter honestly thought he got over that. 

“Flash is here today?” Mrs. Warren finished the rest of Peter’s thought for him. Luckily, because that meant that Peter didn’t need to say it out loud. But unluckily, because that meant that Flash was real and not just a mirage from Peter’s slightly sleep-deprived brain.

The bell rang the very moment that realization dawned on Ned’s face. Peter would have thought it more comical if not for the fact that _Flash was back._

Peter hid the fact that he was actually, truly, afraid of Flash fairly well. Spider-man wasn't, not by a long shot, but Peter Parker was. Peter Parker was a weak geekling (yes, geekling, because he was too weak to be considered an actual geek at his science, math, and technology school). He was at the bottom of the social ladder which subjected him to the taunts of everyone on the top. Flash could do whatever he wanted to Peter Parker, whether that was ridicule, blackmail, or beatings. He could easily corner Peter into intentionally failing an assignment to make himself feel better, or use him to practice his spewing silver tongue, or take out some stress by using him as a human punching bag.

But Peter was also Spider-man now, and he could handle the types of things that Flash threw at him. At least, that’s what he convinced Ned to think. Since Flash was usually so preoccupied with fucking up Peter’s life, he didn’t do much to other people. So, Peter could protect others from Flash by not protecting himself.

Still, after years of being at the receiving end of Flash’s torment, Peter was still afraid. Cripplingly afraid. Anxiety-attack inducing afraid. The kind of afraid that made his Spidey-Sense alert him of Flash’s presence because he was considered a danger. This was the part that Ned didn’t fully understand, just because the Filipino boy would worry endlessly about his best friend if that were so. Ned needed to be able to focus on school and legos and Star Wars, not the anxieties of his weak friend.

The rest of the class period didn’t go absolutely horribly. 

Flash left him alone. Mostly because he was on the other side of the classroom and Mrs. Warren was keeping them busy. To keep himself busy, Peter started to recite the Periodic Table in his head. He usually started by listing them in order by their atomic number, then in alphabetical order if he had time, but he wanted more brain stimulation than that. Those two ways were mostly to calm him down when he got too anxious about something. Instead, Peter decided to recite them in alphabetical order by their symbols, which was a tad different. Since he didn’t have that order completely memorized by now, it proved to be a bit of a challenge.

_Praseodymium, Platinum, Plutonium, Radium, Rubidium, Rutherfordium– wait no, that’s regular alphabetical uh… Ra for Radium, Rubidium is Rb, Rf is Rutherfordium so… Ru? No, Ruthenium comes later. A B C D E F G… OH! Re. Rhenium. Got it okay. Rubidium, Rhenium, Rutherfordium, Roentgenium, Rhodium, Radon…._

“Mr. Parker?” Mrs. Warren half-whispered, half-yelled to Peter, which made him lose track of where he was on the table. He looked to her from where he was staring at the white-bored, completely unaware of why she was trying to capture his attention. 

“Sorry, I kinda… spaced… what was the question?” Peter sheepishly asked in a low voice, a part of his head still trying to figure out where he left off. It wasn’t Rutherfordium, because he got confused on that one. He remembered trying to get to Ruthenium, but said it was later… So probably left off somewhere between Roentgenium and Radon. Rhodium it was… _Rhodium, Radon, Ruthenium, Sulfur – out of the Rs! – Antimony, Scandium…_

“I asked if you had your permission slip for the field trip…?” Mrs. Warren’s expression turned from one of mild annoyance to slight concern. It wasn’t much of a dip, but the tension in between her eyebrows lessened in favor of slightly wider eyes.

“Oh, uh, not yet. I’ll get it to you soon. Next week. I promise.” Peter put his hand over his heart as he swore, looking Mrs. Warren in the eye. The eye contact wasn’t brief by any means. _Selenium, Seaborgium, Silicone..._ It was almost as if his teacher was searching his eyes for something that he didn’t know was there or not. Some fear or anxiety or distrust. By studying so many facial features, Peter had gotten fairly good at hiding his own.

“Okay. Just make sure your foster parent signs it. If they don’t, you either won’t be able to go or… we might have to work something out with your caseworker.” So much for hiding Peter’s own emotional tells. His eyes grew wider as his diaphragm was stabbed with that sentence. _Samarium… Strontium…?_ Right. He wasn’t under the custody of Aunt May anymore. To the school, it looked like he was in the system. Technically, he was. But Peter somehow had managed to keep that whole debacle away from his peers, as he did with Spider-Man. 

Suddenly, Peter felt as though all eyes were on him. They probably were.

All the blood in Peter’s body rushed away from his face, making it paler than pale. His tongue was dry, as was his throat. _No, no Tin comes before Strontium… right..?_ It hurt to breathe. The all-too-familiar stinging of his nose began to tickle his nerves. It spread to his eyes, threatening to make them water. _Yeah. Tin is Sn… Strontium’s Sr… Then Tantalum and Terbium…._

Before they could, however, Peter blinked slowly. He swallowed, despite the action grating uncomfortably in his throat. He offered a small, unbelievable smile. He tried to focus more on the periodic elements so his mind wouldn’t completely break down during class. “Yeah. I’ll make sure it’s signed.” _Technetium, Tellurium, Thorium, Titanium…._

Vaguely, Peter heard whispers around the classroom. Some laughter. A particularly obnoxious laugh that was none other than Flash’s. _Thallium, Thulium... Out of the Ts... Uranium, Ununbium…_ He felt a hand on his shoulder (probably from Ned), and saw Mrs. Warren give him a look that could only be described as pity before walking away. However, the only thing that Peter could truly focus on _...Ununhexium, Ununoctium, Ununpentium…_ was the fact that one of the three of his biggest secrets just was outed to the entire classroom. Mrs. Warren probably thought nothing of it. After all, it was common knowledge among the teachers, so why not the students? Wasn’t it public knowledge, after all? 

_Ununquadium, Ununtrium… nono, wait, forgot Ununseptium. Fuck these U elements and their weird names… uh, Vanadium, Tungsten…_ Ned shook Peter’s shoulder at the same time that the bell rang overhead. Peter acknowledged him with a grimace and a nod of the head…. _Xenon, Yttrium…_ before he bowed down to place his folder and notebook in his backpack. He didn’t look at them too closely, as one had a periodic table on it, and the other had a chart of conversion methods. He was fairly positive that the table was Star Trek themed (because Star Trek is superior to Star Wars but he would never tell Ned that), but that didn’t matter right now. The two walked out of the classroom _...Ytterbium…_ together, but Peter was more occupied with the elements in his head, and the disastrous revelation _...Zinc..._ that most of his class was going through at that point. He and Ned parted at some point _...Zirconium.. _ with the promise to text each other. 

Ah, Zirconium was the last element to list.

Without a periodic distraction, Peter started wondering how fast the rumor would spread. Like wildfire, or a tsunami? Would everyone know by tomorrow? Tonight? Would Flash do something like stream the information online, so that everyone everywhere knew? Why would he feel the need to do that? There wasn’t anything super special about Peter (other than things that Flash didn’t know, aka Spider-man). Who would want to know about Peter’s situation? What was so special about how he wasn’t living with his aunt anymore? Would they think that she was too poor to support him financially? Would they think that she hurt him in some way and got Peter taken away from her by CPS? 

Would they find out what actually happened to her? And how it was entirely Peter’s fault? Would they see that it was all his fault? Would they see how Peter was the reason that he lost two sets of parental figures? Would they be extremely happy that they were right all along about it? Could they figure out that Peter was staying with Tony Stark? Would they question why? Of course, they would. They probably would theorize something crazy and stupid as to why Tony kept Peter around. Would they think Tony was taking advantage of Peter? That he was blackmailing him for some reason? That Peter was actually a bastard child of Tony Stark and was never even wanted in the first place? What would they do to Peter? What would they do to Tony? Would Peter ever be able to live outside the shadow of death that followed him wherever he went?

A heavy shove decidedly strong enough to push regular-Peter over snapped the anxious boy out of his thoughts. Begrudgingly, he stumbled forward. In his stumble, a foot extended in front of him, making Peter trip. With the taste of disgust on his tongue and pain in his pride, Peter made himself fall to the floor.

A face crowded his vision, quickly followed by multiple others.

Peter’s eyebrows scrunched together, pulling worry and fright deep into his expression. He quickly blinked to wipe the expression of unrelenting fear off of his face. Flash smiled down at Peter in a twisted fashion, something that made his skin crawl. Peter shifted on the floor, getting his elbows underneath him, beginning to attempt to lift himself up.

Before he could, a foot pressed against his chest. (It was Johnson. His shoes were incredibly dirty and now there would be dirt all over Peter’s shirt and he would have to explain it to Happy who was waiting for him. Oh God Happy was waiting for him, how would he begin to describe what happened without him getting all angry–) There was feasibly enough pressure against his torso that Peter would have to stay down. When the foot pressed further, Peter let himself flop back down onto the ground.

“Look who it is, but the local poor orphan boy.” Flash sneered down at him. A jolt of fear rushed down Peter’s spine, making a nervous tremor begin in his hands. He hated being called that, especially by Flash. The way the word was thrown from his lips with a vile drip grabbed a hold of Peter’s heart and crushed it in his fist. It was used as a defilement of character, a slur to condemn things out of Peter’s control. “Mommy May finally see what a pathetic little fag you are?”

Silence stilled in the air, Flash’s voice momentarily cut off. Before Peter could rejoice, a shudder of _DANGER DANGER MOVE RIGHT DANGER MOVE–_ lit up in his head. He attempted to ignore it the best he could, but couldn’t suppress the flinch that showed right before a splat of saliva hit Peter’s face. 

Flash spit on him. Flash_spit_ on him, underneath his eye and close to his nose. While he was being held down on the ground by an equally gross shoe. Peter stiffened as he felt the cold-yet-oddly-warm spit begin to slide down his face, subsequently forcing tears to rise in his eyes. Instead of letting them fall, the boy who fucking was _Spider-man for heaven’s sake_ twisted his face into a scowl. 

“Now he’s as dirty on the outside as the inside.” Johnson twisted his foot on Peter’s chest at his remark, spreading the dirt on his favorite blue sweater. It intermingled with the fabric, and Peter knew immediately that it would take ages to get it out. 

Before Peter’s mind could register it (but not before he could feel a surge up his neck and _DANGER DUCK LEFT DANGER_ enter his head), Flash leaned down and grabbed a hold of Peter’s shirt. Johnson’s foot left immediately, letting Flash forcefully yank Peter off of the floor and shoved him into the nearby lockers. 

Flash was there, right in Peter’s face, crowding him so heavily that all Peter could see was the fire blaring in the shorter’s eyes. 

“You don’t get to look at me like that. An abandoned pathetic excuse of a person doesn’t get to look at me like that.” Flash tightened his grip on Peter’s collar, pushing the boy further into the locker. The handle dug into the small of Peter’s back. “You know, I bet your aunt killed herself. She probably was so fed up with your bullshit and the burden of supporting the one who got her husband killed. Good riddance in my opinion. Poor people like you only clutter the streets. Now you just have to go and off yourself too. Then the world will be clean of the Penis Parker disease.”

Peter’s stomach was spinning, constricting, curling in on itself and thrusting his heart into his throat. A wave over pure helplessness rushed over him like a tidal wave. His throat constricted, his nose stung once more, and he suddenly registered the blurriness in his vision to be unshed tears. Peter willed himself to blink them away, but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate. None of his body would do what he was telling it to do. Not his fists, which he wanted to connect to Flash’s face. Not his legs, which weren’t supporting him fully anymore. Not his neck, which he wanted to snap down to butt Flash in the forehead. But no, Peter couldn’t move. He was frozen in fear; petrified in patheticness. 

He was helpless. If he had more confidence, maybe he wouldn’t be so much of a loser. Peter could handle a guy like Flash in a heartbeat. He could throw him straight across the room. 

But instead, a fist collided into Peter’s stomach. He grunted and doubled over, mostly for show. His freaky spider-powers may have strengthened him, but a punch to the gut was still a punch to the gut. He felt slightly winded as a sore, blunt pain spread across his torso. It wasn’t anything close to how Flash’s punches used to feel, so Peter screwed his face up in an expression his muscles knew to be of pain. 

A hand (not belonging to Flash or Johnson, since it felt much bigger than theirs) grabbed Peter around the throat. As yet another chorus of _DANGER DANGER_ rang, the pressure guided him forward away from the wall, then released him so suddenly that Peter actually stumbled. He was putting too much reliance on the hands that held him up. Before Peter could fall to the ground thanks to his shaky legs, another scream of _DANGER!!!!!!_ Ripped through his thoughts.

Seconds later, the same boy with huge hands (and muscular arms too. What was this kid, a bodybuilder?) man-handled Peter’s arms until they were trapped behind his back. Bodybuilder (as Peter was calling him in his head since he didn’t know exactly who he was and he opened his eyes too late to tell) was successfully holding him back. With a quick test of how strong he actually was, Peter tried half-heartedly to pull away. He didn’t even budge out of his grip. 

That sent panic down Peter’s spine. He struggled again, harsher this time, only to be met with the grip tightening. Whomever Bodybuilder was, he was strong enough to hold Peter back. Even when he was using a sliver of super strength. That was enough for Peter’s blood to run cold, stilling in his hold.

Johnson connected a punch to Peter’s face with another yell of his Spidey-Sense, and a sickening crack, to which Peter begrudgingly snapped his head to the side. The taste of iron settled uncomfortably on his tongue. Flash, evidently feeling left out of the fun, connected his knee into Peter’s chest. That was one of his favorite moves: kicking the area right underneath the apex of the ribs, underneath where the sternum ended. It burned like hell, so much so that Peter released a cry of pain. He told himself it was mostly for show, but the area kicked twinged with white-hot pain.

The sound of footsteps steadily approaching broke Peter out of his haze. It took several seconds (and a few more blunt connections with Peter’s body) before the group noticed the footsteps as well. In haste, Johnson and Flash fled without another word. Bodybuilder took longer to flee, shoving Peter down to the ground with another sneer towards Peter’s status as a foster kid. 

Honestly, Peter couldn’t think of anything that was more stereotypically bully-like. But since he was a superhero, that would mean he got all of the cliche story beats along with it. At least, that’s what Peter told himself as he got his palms on the floor and his knees underneath him. 

“Oh my god…!” A very concerned, very close voice exclaimed far too loud for Peter’s sensitive hearing to consider ‘comfortable.’ The boy grimaced, taking heavy breaths instead of answering. Just because he was literally Spider-Man and had super strength and enhanced agility didn't mean that several hits to the diaphragm didn’t hurt. It just meant it would probably hurt for less time. “Are you okay, Peter?”

Ah, okay, Peter was being called out by name, so he probably should open his eyes now. Yeah. So that’s what he did: opened his begrudgingly watering eyes and looked up to see who the hell was kneeling next to him. 

“Yeah.” Peter huffed, swallowing his pride, and leaned back onto his legs. None other than Betty Brant, resident crush of his best friend, was kneeling next to him. He registered that his hands were shaking and vaguely wondered if it was because of fear or something else. “Just a little… winded.”

Betty placed a hand on Peter’s back, to which he almost flinched. The excess adrenaline rushing through him – which honestly was probably half the reason why his hands were shaking – made everything sensitive. Including touch. Excluding taste, because that’s the one sense that Peter doesn’t think was heightened in any way from the Spider Bite. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Betty was looking at him with a concerned look so deep that it could rival Ned’s when Peter was obviously lying to him. 

Peter didn’t even attempt a smile, knowing it would just come out weak and forced. He hung his head instead, shifted against the contact on his back, and meekly laughed. It sounded more chuckle-like and much to breathy, but it was all Peter could manage. His body might not be hurting much – it still was but not as much as it could have – but his mind was aching. It was churning and thumping and rushing and so damn full of pitiful weakness that Peter could barely tell exactly how long he and Betty were sitting on the floor. At this point, Peter wished he knew more about her so he could nitpick what she probably was thinking. He didn’t have enough information on her yet. But the inch-away-from-hyperventilating-boy did notice from the corner of his eye that she was biting her lip slightly, and her eyebrows were quivering like she didn’t usually hold them in a position like that often. 

“Are you sure? It looked to me that someone was, uh… hurting you.” Betty moved her hand before she finished her sentence, in favor of gently putting it in her lap. Peter’s tense shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, grateful for the freedom.

Peter honestly didn’t know what to say in response to that, but his mouth ran ahead of his brain anyway. “Oh, that? They’re just doing the whole ‘poor orphan’ routine again. Gets a little old in my opinion. Pretty boring show at this point.” 

“That makes it even worse, Peter.” Betty almost whined under her breath, worry escalating with every passing moment that he didn’t make eye contact with her. Peter decided that looking Betty in the eye would be a good idea at this point. That way, he could de-escalate her worry easier, and nitpick her facial expressions easier. He could only do so much out of the corner of his eye while his head was down. Only, when he turned to face her, she immediately gasped and covered her hands over her mouth. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m what now,” Peter asked without any inflection in his voice, bringing his hand up to his face. His fingertip connected with warm liquid streaming from his nose, making him grimace. Before he even realized it, under his breath, he questioned: “Dammit, my nose didn’t break again did it?”

“Again?? You’ve broken your nose before?” Betty was, for all intents and purposes, panicking now. Not as much as Peter was, as he was _this close_ to having a panic attack. His hands were shaking more now, stuttering as they grazed against the bloody massacre that was his face. Anxiety was pooling in his gut, a weight pulling down his heart into his stomach. His Spidey-Sense, luckily, was quiet at the moment. For now, all Peter had to deal with was regular old intrusive thoughts and anxiety.

“Yeah. Three times I think? This would make it the fourth.” Peter gently brought his hand up to his nose. He didn’t know how he didn’t notice it before: the blood was still flowing, beginning to drip onto the floor. Maybe it started bleeding when Betty came by. Peter didn’t know. All he knew is that it hurt like a motherfucker now that it was brought to his attention. 

“Okay, we’re getting you to the nurse and then possibly to the hospital and then to the principal because whoever keeps breaking your nose needs to be punished.” Betty stood up with a certain confidence, holding her hand out to Peter. “We’re getting you help.”

And Peter? Well, Peter just stayed on the ground. “I’m fine, really Betty. He’s never broken my nose before. I’m just…. Clumsy. The other times were my fault.” Peter didn’t know how to put ‘I’m a superhero and sometimes during fights, bad guys punch my face and break my nose. Also once in training I did a backflip to get away from Hawkeye but landed on my face to not accidentally land on the Black Widow.’

“Oh, so it was a ‘he?’” Betty decided to focus on instead, hand still outstretched and seemingly not going to let this go. 

Peter screwed his eyes shut, balling his shirt in his hands and resigning himself to ruining his favorite sweater. He pressed it against his nose, wincing at the pain that it caused. But he was stopping the bleeding, which is what the point was. Peter honestly wished he could get off his ass, go with Betty, get himself out of the situation with Flash. But Flash wasn’t going to stop doing mean things. If he wasn’t bothering Peter, then he would bully someone else. And someone else isn’t Spider-man, with super-strength and super-healing.

Speaking of that super-healing, he was going to have to get his nose set and fast, or else it would heal brokenly and he would have to rebreak it to set it properly. 

“Like I said, Betty, I’m really alright. I have to get going; I'm running late already and Ha...my uh,” Peter blanked, not knowing what to call Happy. He settled on the most believable lie he could think of at the moment. “My boss hates it when I'm late.” Peter wiped at his nose a few more times, happy to feel that there was no more blood gushing out of his nostrils. It still hurt like all high hell, but that was beside the point. It would be fine soon. 

“Your boss? You have a job?” Betty reluctantly focused on that part of the conversation, as it seemed like she was getting nowhere with the physical abuse she saw. At least, she was getting nowhere with Peter. Her hand dropped, no longer holding it out for Peter to take. 

“Yeah. Gotta pay bills somehow.” Peter chuckled somewhat darkly, licking his fingers and beginning to scrub the dried blood off his lips. It did not look pleasant; actually it looked fairly barbaric. It was not a pleasant feeling either, but then again, neither was Betty’s eyes tearing into him. He just wanted this conversation to end. 

“But you’re sixteen still, right?” Betty pursed her lips when Peter nodded. It was no secret that Peter was younger than everyone in the grade. He skipped second grade, back when Ben was still comfortable with Peter speeding up his education. May never was quite as lenient.

Betty began to wring her fingers together, presumably unsure of what to do. She moved her weight from side to side, uncomfortable as Peter. “You shouldn’t be the breadwinner, then. You’re still a kid.”

The pain in Peter’s nose had faded into a background rumble, much like the blunt soreness in his abdomen. Thus, he decided it probably was a good idea to stand now. He was staying on the floor for an unacceptable amount of time at this point. 

“I mean, technically I’m not. I don’t have to pay rent or for groceries anymore, but with everything with May…” Peter trailed off, bringing his fingers up to his fucked up nose. With a deep breath, he manhandled the broken monstrosity back into place. There was a sickening crack, and Betty flinched back with an exclaim of “Peter!”

There was silence for a fair few moments. Peter was breathing heavily, his shirt up against his nose again. His eyes were screwed shut as he bounced on the balls of his feet. With another few breaths, Betty spoke up again.

“Are you alright?” The question seemed redundant at this point, but she still crept closer. 

“Fine,” Peter grumbled, moving to soak up blood with his left sleeve. “Sorry, I had to set it back in place. Better sooner than later.”

“Why don’t you, I don’t know, let a professional do it?” Betty whined, still not understanding the situation that she was in. To her, it looked like a fellow classmate was being hurt – was hurt – so he obviously should go to the hospital to get it fixed, then get whoever was hurting him into trouble.

From Peter’s perspective, he couldn’t. If he got Flash into trouble, two things could happen. Either nothing would really happen because of his rich father, or Flash would move schools and find a new victim. Peter was Spider-Man; he could take the violence. Peter also wasn’t used to going to the hospital whenever he was injured. For one, he was Spider-Man, so that would round up bounds of confusion and hysteria. For two, Peter never had enough money to pay for hospital bills. That is until Tony came along.

Oh shit. Tony. Happy was still waiting for him.

“Betty, I’m gonna be frank,” Peter started, smoothing out his bloodied shirt. He breathed deeply despite the groan of protesting that his diaphragm made. He was so done with this conversation, emptiness beginning to claw at the edges of his panic. “I’m in foster care. I don’t have parents to help with expenses. And honestly? My group home would be too bothered to pay for a hospital bill. I can’t afford it. I work because my only living relative is almost dead and I have to pay off the mounds of medical bills she left behind. I can’t spare anything for a silly broken nose that I know how to fix from experience.” 

That, finally, left Betty stilled into silence. Peter immediately regretted snapping at her, but at least what he said was mostly a lie. It was true at one point in his life, a year ago, when things first started going to shit. But things were better now, despite having a broken nose in the school hallway. Peter let his face show what guilt that was turning inside his stomach, the tiredness in his eyes, the shame in his soul. But then again, he never had much control over his facial expressions in moments like these. That’s why he wore a mask, after all.

“I…” Betty started, voice choked and breath shaky. There were tears in her eyes. The anxiety that was drowned out by the post-panic tired emptiness came back full force. He went too far. “I’m so sorry, Peter…” 

“Shit–” Peter swore, taking a few steps closer to Betty. His hands were shaking again “Please don’t cry for me. I really am fine. I over exaggerated a bit. I probably could go to the hospital if it was an emergency but I don’t want to bother the foster people. Really it’s fine–”

“No, it’s really not,” Betty sprung forward and wrapped her arms around the bloodied boy. Peter would have pushed her away, but that didn’t seem like the best idea right now. She needed comfort. “I had no idea it was so hard for you.”

Peter could hear the exaggerated heartbeat of the girl in his arms, the stuttering breath, the hiccups barely noticeable to normal ears. In all honesty, it was one of the most uncomfortable things he experienced all week.

Before anything else could be said, Peter’s phone began violently buzzing. 

“That would be my boss.” It felt wrong to refer to Happy as his boss. Peter laughed in an attempt to lighten the conversation. It didn’t work. Betty still moved away, concerned even heavier on her features. 

“If you ever need anything ever, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Betty locked Peter dead in the eyes, her stare daring him to disagree. They screamed at him to promise her, even if that wasn’t necessarily what she said.

“I’ll reach out. I promise. Just…” Peter sighed, shaking his head as he took out his phone and ended the call with Happy before returning to Betty. “Please don’t make a big deal out of this. It sounds bad but I promise, I’ve been at worse,” Peter cringed in on himself as Betty’s facial expression twisted once more. He held out his hands in a pleading stance, telling a half-truth. “The fosters I have right now are actually decent and I don’t want to move again.” 

On paper, Anthony Stark was his father. Or, foster father? Peter wasn’t quite sure, but he knew that the man was legally his guardian. That could get taken away if Betty went and talked shit all over his foster family. Peter wanted nothing more than to stay living in the Compound for forever (or until he went to college). 

“I’ll keep quiet if you reach out.” Betty agreed reluctantly thanks to Peter’s expression. It told a story all on its own: of heartache, pain, greif, then the liberation of love and acceptance. Betty patted her hand on the slightly-dry-but-still-very-wet blood on his shirt. Peter grimaced and shrugged the sweater off, revealing his flannel underneath. 

Betty offered another smile, to which Peter returned. They were both shaky ones, neither truly okay with how this situation was developing. They exchanged nods, and Betty finally walked away. 

Peter slumped in on himself, absolutely exhausted. His backpack slumped over a few steps away. The sore boy leaned over and stuffed his bloodied sweater into the bag, fingers still shaking. He had to get to Happy, but before that he had to get the rest of the blood off his face. Luckily, most (if not all) of the offending red liquid was on his _favorite blue sweater_ that was now hidden away in his bag. 

Bright sides, he guessed.


End file.
